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by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Flowers, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'can do a readerxdavey and preferably very fluffy thank you!!' Davy's been in America.





	

“ _Darling?_ ”

You sit up, eyes wide, and look up at the clock. _6:44am_. He’s not due to be back til about seven that night…! You swing your legs out of bed, yawning, and slide your feet into your fluffy slippers, before casting around for your dressing gown.

There is silence from downstairs, and you pause as you stand up. Did you just imagine that? Maybe you miss him too much… you pause, and then sigh. Of course you miss him. He’s been in America for weeks, and seeing him on the television is not the same as being able to reach out at night and touch him. He couldn’t even call you last night; you got a brief message from Peter, but that’s hardly a substitute.

You pad gently down the stairs, and your heart sinks to your feet as you don’t see him in the living room. You had hoped… you shake yourself, and sigh. You might as well get a cup of tea and take it upstairs – no point in staying awake, not when you have to stay up late tonight. You shuffle into the kitchen, yawning, and your eyes set on a bouquet of flowers resting on the table.

“Hello, luv.”

You jump, and spin around – Davy’s there, and god, he looks so… so much like home, in his warm gloves and hat, and coat. You find yourself beaming, unable to talk, and it isn’t until his arms are around you that you manage to speak.

“Oh, Davy, I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry, luv, I meant to call, but our flight got changed. I got Peter to ring. Did he?” he asks, still full of that anxious energy that’s so endearing, and you kiss him softly. “Oh, luv, I’ve missed you too… I got you some flowers, luv. Your favourites!” he beams. You look at the bouquet again, and he slides his arm back around your waist. “Mike called me a soppy bastard.” You giggle, and he flushes. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” you murmur, and he kisses you again, cradling your face gently. “I have an idea.” He raises an eyebrow. “How about…” You look at the kitchen clock. “…as it is five to seven, we go and get back in bed until a more sociable time?” He grins at you, and you rest your forehead against his, looking deep into those dark brown eyes.

“I reckon that this is why I love you, (Y/N),” he murmurs, and you gently begin to take his gloves off. He swats you away playfully. “Sort those flowers out, luv, they’ll die without water. And then go and get back in bed. You look frightful.” You swat him back, and he grins. “Only joking. Go on.” You fish out the only vase in the house, some marble glass nightmare from under the sink, and throw them in, half-filling it with water – you don’t trust yourself with scissors right now – and as you put them on the windowsill, he’s taken his coat and hat off, and slides his arms around you again.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you smile.

“I’ve got stories to tell you, luv, but later. Come on. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Just you,” you smile. You can fall asleep happily with your boyfriend in your arms. “Just you, Davy.”


End file.
